Sarabande
by igsygrace
Summary: AU fic in which Caroline never pursued a romance with Dwight and eventually married Unwin Trevaunance. Dwight has left Cornwall for a few weeks, just before her wedding, and he returns to interesting news. Things happen. Posted for Carolight Fan Fic Week. Dwight/Caroline.


**Sarabande**

* * *

AU fic in which Caroline never pursued a romance with Dwight and eventually married Unwin Trevaunance. Dwight has left Cornwall for a few weeks, just before her wedding, and he returns to interesting news. Things happen.

This is an excerpt from a novel-length fiction I wrote in which Dwight and Caroline are the protagonists. Over time, the story evolved, I moved it to Devon and away from the Poldarks. Here, I've taken it back to its original setting.

A Sarabande is a dance that originated possibly in Mexico or South America before traveling to Spain, where some considered it "indecent." It later moved to France, where it became a stately court dance. It shows up in _The Compleat Country Dance Master_ , a compilation of 17th and 18th century English country dances that was one of my bibles for writing this story.

Notes for anyone not familiar with the books: This story was written to be consistent with Winston Graham's novels. Unwin is actually quite a bit older than Caroline (around forty) and not quite as goofy as portrayed in the current television series. His brother, Sir John Trevaunance, is a bachelor who lives in Place House, which is just south along the coast from Nampara (the sister from Devon is my invention). The Treneglos estate (Mingoose House) is on the other side of the coast from Nampara. In the books, Dwight lives on the Treneglos estate in the Gatehouse, just where the estate borders with Nampara. Also, the Penvenens _are_ very wealthy, but Killewarren itself is almost laughably plain and run down. It's usually described as a glorified farmhouse in need of minor repairs. At this point, Ray Penvenen has died and Caroline Trevaunance is the mistress of Killewarren.

* * *

In the morning, he made his way back home. He had had three letters from his locum - an eager young man named Richard Stockton - giving him updates on his patients. There had been fairly little to report.

In the early afternoon, he reached that spot on the road where, looking left, he could see the tip of Trenwith's gray turret and looking right, the peak of Killewarren over the bare trees. From there, the Killewarren woods dropped off into open country, and he took the faint path that roughly marked the border between Nampara and Mingoose, reaching the Gatehouse in twenty minutes.

Stockton had lunch set out for him and a fire going. They ate together, and he filled Dwight in on the details of what had been going on. "It was the devil collecting any money from these people, Dr. Enys," concluded the young man, "but I've left you an accounting of all you're owed."

Dwight smiled. Apparently his warnings about the lack of ready funds among his patients had not been believed. "Sometimes that do depend on how good the market is for the fishermen or the farmers, or how close or far it is to payday at the mines. Did no one else call?"

"Someone came over from the big house last week."

"Mingoose - or Trenwith?"

"Killewarren, she said. I asked if I should forward a message to you but she said, no, it was not an emergency and would keep until you got back. I have it on a note with the casebook and the receipts and things."

Dwight's heart thumped out of rhythm for a minute, although logically 'she' could not be Caroline. It must have been one of the maids there.

After lunch, they went over the casebook and the costbook. Dwight noted how much neater Stockton was at keeping receipts and, more importantly, how matter-of-fact his recording of the cases. He was not overly-imaginative in his diagnoses, nor had he deviated from Dwight's instructions for the treatment of his current patients. For the one or two complicated cases - a lung condition that Dwight suspected might be peripneumon and a probable kidney inflammation - he had referred to Dr. Choake.

The note was from Caroline. He actually read her name - her new name - over and over again, before his brain allowed him to recognize it. And even then, it was impossible - she was in London! But she wasn't.

.

.

Caroline had taken to wearing gray, something of a half-mourning. It had never been part of her wardrobe in the past, and it did not suit her skin - but her looks did not matter anymore. They would not matter again. Not even for her husband now would she ever entertain princes and politicians; she would remain entombed here with him; it did not matter.

Sir John had offered to put them up at Place House, Unwin's childhood home, which, apart from being cleaner and better staffed was nearer to the coastal air. But Caroline decided to put off a decision until after the holidays. Marrying his brother had not quite made her relationship with Sir John any easier - he still gave off that air of mildly puzzled disapproval.

On the last day of October, Caroline had a letter from Dwight that he had returned from Cornwall, had received her message and would call on her the following day. Caroline was relieved - at last in the midst of all this, some forward motion. She trusted none better to tell her what Unwin's prospects were.

She received him in the family parlour. He bent over her hand, then they sat and waited for tea, looking each other over. It had not been that long since she had last seen him, but she was suddenly struck by the sensation that there was an enormous change in him. It was difficult for her to put her finger on. He looked the same - lean and pale. Perhaps he had lost some of the boyish curve that had still been in his face three years ago. At all times, his polite resentment of her - her class and her political ideals, her sense of family duty, her air of superiority (which she did now see was a touch arrogant) - had been open in his face, had been the barrier between them that she had relied upon to keep herself from doing something as utterly foolish as think of him as more than vaguely handsome. That is what was missing now. He was giving her an expression of pity, and it was mingled with something else - something searching, a genuine concern. They had become friends and she didn't know how or when it had happened … happiness broke over her with a threat of tears. She swallowed them.

"Dr. Enys - it is such a relief that you are home at last. Cornwall can scarce spare you."

"I must admit, my patients never left my mind. It was not a restful vacation. If I had known then about Mr. Trevaunance..."

She shook her head. "For your other patients, I cannot speak, but for Unwin I can say for certain - there is nothing that could have been done this past month. I trust you can tell me his future prognosis, or can refer me to someone who can, but short of somehow undoing the accident, I fear there is nothing that could have been done to improve his current condition."

"Head injuries are not my area of expertise," he cautioned her, "although of course I have seen some in the mines."

"I do understand that, doctor. I rely on you, in the main, because I know you will be honest with me and not treat with me like a lent-lily wife."

"It's not a course of action that is appreciated by everyone," he replied.

She smiled - it hurt her face, and she wondered when was the last time she had smiled.

"Tell me what happened, exactly," he started, then – "Wait, first …" he reached into his bag and pulled out a small package wrapped in brown paper. "I found this in Kilkhampton and I thought of you. I missed your wedding, but – ."

She unwrapped it, her eyebrow arched curiously, then she laughed when she saw it - it was a miniature watercolor of a dancing bear. If he thought she had forgotten their conversation from a year ago, he was mistaken - she got the reference at once. Her laugh would not stop - it spilled out of her, from an aching place, and finally he started laughing, too.

"Why are you laughing?" she gasped.

"Because you are," he said.

"I have a gift for you also," she said, "although it is not nearly so thoughtful as this." She had set aside for him one of the baskets of oranges that had been sent to her in sympathy of her pseudo-widowhood.

After she had calmed down, she answered his questions and described the accident that had happened on her wedding day. It had simply been a matter of their horses being spooked and the carriage tipped over. She herself had not been severely injured at all - shock, mostly - but Unwin had hit his head at an unfortunate angle. She had been told the injury was primarily to the parietal lobe, and had affected an inordinate amount of his functioning - limb movement, speech, hearing, memory, sense. He had been trepanned four times already, and each time there had been fluid removed, although less each time. He had had two violent seizures.

"You look grim," she said upon finishing, and getting a look at his face.

"Multiple trepannings represent a dual danger - an internal hematoma that will not heal, and an increased risk of exposure of the brain to infection."

"Hematoma," she repeated. "Yes, that's what they - some kind of hematoma, with – ."

"Apraxia? Yes, with aphasia also, perhaps. And possibly worse - although aphasia is bad enough. His mind could be intact within him, desiring to move and speak, but unable to. Or his mind could be gone - damaged irreparably, so that even were he to heal physically, he would remain - insensible. Let me see him, now."

Dwight spent some time feeling around Unwin's head, speaking to him, trying to hold the gaze of his eyes. He tested his nerves - hitting his knee and squeezing his wrist and elbow. When he was finished, he did not hide from her the seriousness of the man's condition. He looked down at Unwin - it was not his fault Dwight loved the woman he had married - with enormous pity.

He told her: "There is a subdural hematoma in the parietal lobe. There is additional injury to the brain matter - without question. He has no reaction - I doubt he recognizes speech. As the brain heals, he may retain some control over his movements, but such severe damage to the higher functions rarely heal. The seizures are probably the result of the hematoma - there is a slow leak of blood gathering - uh - between the meningeal layers of the brain. This eventually causes cranial pressure - the seizures. The trepanning will need to continue on a regular basis - these seizures represent a serious crisis point in the course of his condition, and should be held off, if possible."

"Will he live - the rest of his life - this way?"

"Most likely, yes - and it will not be as long a life as it should have been." He glanced at her, and tried to read her expression.

"How long does he have?"

"We can extend his life with care. He can be kept on a liquid diet and in addition someone should be hired to maintain his physical strength: I mean, physically work his limbs, help him to walk around. Atrophy will kill him almost as quickly as anything. The clearer risk is that of infection to his brain, either by exposure to frequent surgery, or an excess of blood. Eventually - one or the other will most likely take him. He might have a few years. He might have a few days. It depends a great deal on his day-to-day care." A depressing conversation, too close to the one they had had when he had first diagnosed her uncle. For a woman born into good fortune, she had very ill luck indeed.

She smiled wanly. "I will do whatever I can."

"Miss - I mean, Mrs. Trevaunance, I am more sorry than I can say. This is hard news to give a newly wedded woman. The years of your marriage will not be easy."

She looked at him, almost with an expression of indignation. "Save your pity for the county. I have resources enough - and time enough, God knows - to devote to him while I can. In that, I am luckier than most. I am luckier than he is, poor devil."

"You have said you value my honesty, Mrs. Trevaunance, and I'll not spare it now. You are correct in that you are luckier than most. Use your privilege to care for him without going under yourself. Do not lock yourself away as a nursemaid - you are young and an important person in this county in your own right. Nothing you can do will spare him, ultimately, from his fate. This is not your fault."

Her expression turned raw and sad. "I know you do not believe in witchery, doctor. Nor do I, but - in my heart, I feel that somehow I ill-wished him. Certainly, if I had just married him earlier, he never would have … Or better that I had been strong enough not to marry him, at all. He pursued me, yes, but that this should be the end of the pursuit seems so cruel. Believe me that I had never imagined such an end. And yet," she blushed suddenly, "I dreaded the wedding. It's as if the dread somehow manifested itself in that accident - on the very day."

He was silent, watching her. He suddenly realized what she was saying; he hadn't thought of it, and it was unworthy to think of it at all - but now it was all he could think of. This marriage was unconsummated. She had a means of escape.

"I'm sorry," she said, "I don't mean to embarrass you. It's your fault for being a physician - I couldn't confide like this to anyone else."

"I am used to that," he said kindly. "And you speak out of grief - grief laid on top of grief. It causes phantoms to overtake rational thought - I am not immune to such things myself. I will help you - and I say again, when you take time for yourself, to come out from under this grief and take a care for yourself, you will be all the better a caretaker for your husband."

That night, Caroline woke from a vivid dream, and found herself smiling in the darkness. The dream was an exact replay of earlier - when Dwight had given her a present and she had laughed and laughed. In the dream, the laughter seemed overloud and overlong, and just before waking, she started feeling abashed at herself … but the laughter was still on her lips, and she touched her face thoughtfully, wondering.

.

.

At first, Sir John - and his married sister, Thomazin Hamlyn, who had come down from Devon - raised all manner of objections. Unwin would have his London physician in - perhaps even they would move him there, where there were surgical facilities. But Caroline had them meet with Dwight, who not only advised them on the risks of transporting him, but impressed them with his treatment plan. He was charismatic when expounding on professional matters - even his admission of a lack of knowledge or uncertainty of an outcome was delivered with such confidence as to be reassuring. Caroline watched his effect on her in-laws with new eyes.

.

.

Caroline had resisted it persistently, but, in the end, Thomazin persuaded her to attend the Boxing Day Ball. She had spent Christmas at Place House, anyway. Unwin was stable, having gone more than two weeks without a seizure, and his brother and sister were very pleased with his improvement under Dr. Enys' care - and slightly more optimistic of his future prospects than they should be. So, Caroline must remove her near-widow's weeds and join her family to host the Ball. It was a family obligation, and must go on.

Caroline found an appropriately muted dress from her set of London clothes. Not a ball gown, but a plain and formal frock, pale lavender in color, with a small bustle and long sleeves.

She took her place with Sir John and Thomazin, and Thomazin's family, to greet the guests: a predictable gathering of Teagues and Trenegloses, Warleggans and Whitworths. The Poldarks were not here - a pity, she always liked to see Ross in company, especially when George was around and there was the prospect of an explosion. Strange that at this very ball, just a year ago, she had still been holding Unwin on a long leash and had flirted with Dwight at dinner. That Caroline seemed so much younger and alien to her now, her motivations almost baffling.

"Dr. Enys!" This was Thomazin, and Caroline was snapped suddenly out of her reverie.

"Mrs. Hamlyn, Sir John … Mrs. Trevaunance." Dwight stopped before each of them in turn, standing last in front of Caroline and smiling. He was dressed in what she knew to be his one good dress coat, and as always wore his own hair, tied in the back. "I'm pleased to see you here, Mrs. Trevaunance. Mrs. Hamlyn, I can not count the number of times I have advised Mrs. Trevaunance that she will be the better nurse for her husband if she takes judicious breaks for her own renewal."

"I agree entirely, Dr. Enys; at any rate, we are very much in your debt and we all rely heavily on your advice. Unwin has improved so much…."

Dwight smiled gently. Caroline said: "Dr. Enys, may I introduce you to Mr. Richard Hammett, Unwin's nephew, and his wife, Mary."

Once the guests were greeted and the family made its grand entrance, Caroline separated herself from her in-laws and took a seat in the ballroom, so she could watch the dancing. She looked about at the young members of the company. She had grown up in London and Oxfordshire, so she really knew no one of her own age in these parts, and she had never really felt the need to. But it made her feel strangely isolated now.

"Mrs. Trevaunance."

Caroline made herself pause before she looked up at him. She knew he would seek her out.

"Dr. Enys." She held up her hand for him to kiss.

"Do you intend to dance?"

"No, I do not think it appropriate, but I am anxious to observe it."

"Do I have your permission to join you in this exercise?"

"I would enjoy your company, sir, except for the guilt I would feel from depriving the ladies of the room a gallant dance partner."

He sat down in the seat next to her. "Some might say it is not appropriate for Caroline Penvenen to deprive the gentlemen in the room her partnership," he said quietly. "At least the formal dances. One can dance those in dignity."

She looked at him. "Are you angling for one of these dances yourself, sir?"

"More than anything, ma'am."

She sighed. "I will grant you the courante, that is slow enough; but only if you promise to dance with some of the other young ladies after dinner. As an eligible young man, it is only your obligation."

"That is a hard oath, ma'am, but if those are the conditions, I will abide."

The courante being the second dance, he brought her a glass of wine and they sat through the first, speaking little. Caroline was grateful for his company next to her; he had seen her and her family in sickness and distress - there were no constraints between them. The odd formality that had been struck up between them tonight was a necessity, here in the house of her husband's family, but even that had its charms, like it was a private game between them.

As they struck up the courante, he rose and took her hand. The courante allowed them to remain partners together throughout, holding hands, linking arms and doing the delicate footwork through the line until they reached the end and got to walk together, arm in arm, to the beginning again. It was one her favorite dances to watch, graceful and balletic, but it was difficult to talk to one's partner throughout, as one concentrated on the hopping motions.

As they performed their walk, both slightly out of breath, Caroline said, "Your technique is excellent, Dr. Enys. And you've always spoken so humbly of your abilities."

"I believe this dance relies much on the competence of one's partner," he returned.

As the dance ended, he guided her back to her seat, and she was keenly aware of his hand on her back. She hesitated, and instead of taking her seat, turned around to face him, and she was briefly in the circle of his arm before he let it drop. She looked at the rough texture of his jaw, the shadow of the hairs just under the surface.

"Dr. Enys, you will think I am very forward, but I have a sudden desire to dance the sarabande."

"Far be it from me to leave you unsatisfied," he said, very softly.

For this dance, they could converse, but Caroline found herself unable to. She had never known before how the sarabande mirrored the ebb and flow of sexual desire, as she found herself first close by him, then at a distance, then pulled back into his orbit, their eyes locked together. It was he who broke the silence between them, as they walked a length together, clinging to each other's fingers.

"I apologize if I'm less graceful at this dance."

"I've noticed nothing of the kind, Dr. Enys. Rarely…" she swallowed. "Rarely have I enjoyed it more."

His glance at her was not a comfortable one. There was pain in it, and it struck a strange, deep sympathetic note of pain in herself. Her hand trembled; she could not understand it. "Rarely have I enjoyed anything more," he replied softly.

And that was the moment she understood. Two opposing responses came to her - one gently quashed his impertinence, the other did not. "I might be persuaded to agree."

The music began to fade, and she stepped closer to him, readying her curtsey. "On what," he asked her, "depends your agreement?"

She lowered her head, then looked up. Her eyebrow arched. "Upon the finish, of course," she said.

He held out his hand to help her straighten up, then enfolded her arm in his and walked her away from the other dancers, now buzzing with each other - speaking together in friendly and flirtatious anticipation of dinner. He brought her to where Thomazin stood, and Caroline was aware that there was a vague worry in her sister-in-law's face; whether a broad worry for the unseemly enjoyment of a wife whose husband was on his sickbed, or a narrow worry specifically about herself and Dwight, she was not sure. Either was bad, both should be allayed, but Caroline's concern was not for her.

She clasped Dwight's arms for a moment, squeezed them, and then let go and curtsied. "Dr. Enys, I thank you for sacrificing your time to help me forget my sorrows, at least for a moment." But she held his eyes with hers, and showed no grief, only a hungry curiosity for … something. Knowledge of good and evil? She wondered.

"It was my pleasure, ma'am."

"Now, I pray you will hold to your side of the bargain and dance all the country dances."

"All the dances? I don't recall making that agreement." He smiled. "But we shall see."

As Thomazin escorted her to the dining room, she said, "It is a pity the young man is still unattached. He has been in this district for a number of years, has he not?"

"I think so," replied Caroline, watching Dwight's back as he preceded them in the line headed for dinner. "Perhaps he is not. I have heard of a connection to the banker's daughter in Truro."

"Have you, my dear? Wherever do you hear your rumours?"

"This is such an incestuous little community, sister, as you know."

But that rumour was quite old, and probably false, Caroline reflected to herself. In fact, she had seen Joan Pascoe somewhere about, in company with a young man called St. John or something like that.

Decidedly false. She tried not to, but all through dinner she kept glancing down the table at him, and more often than not, she caught him looking at her - or he sensed her gaze and looked over in his turn. A year ago, a year ago … they had looked down this very table together and watched Unwin flirting awkwardly with Alice Trelask, angrily trying to gain her attention. She and Dwight - what had they spoken of - bear dancing? She blushed at the thought of how flippant, how frivolous her conversation must have been. What fate - what resentful fury - had protected her that night from these feelings? Unwin would be less than nothing to her now, if she had only realized.

After dinner, she went through the back parlour, out to the porch, and she stood in the cold. Reality, sharper than the weather, struck her in the face. It was utter foolishness to believe that this feeling had ever been an option, even then. Unwin Trevaunance had been the only outcome. Dwight Enys was always going to marry a banker's daughter, or a fisherman's daughter, or someone, anyone, who might bring him a little money but be content to live in small lodgings as the doctor's wife.

"Oh, God," she said out loud. For a little while longer, she stood in the darkness, pondering her own unruly, rebellious nature; wondering if he knew, if it was obvious. She put her hands to her face.

She was in the process of stepping back inside, when she heard the footsteps behind her. She turned around and watched his approach. She did not know what he could possibly be thinking of, what she could possibly say.

"Mrs. Trevaunance! I was worried you had left without saying goodbye."

After a pause, she said, "I fear we have already been too obvious, Dr. Enys."

The night shadows were all over his face, so his expression was indecipherable. "Yes - that fault is mine."

"No - it is jointly shared. But do not call it a fault. Please, not that. Perhaps a mild indiscretion? Harmless in itself."

"I would not want people to talk of you falsely."

"I don't care about that. They will talk or no, it means nothing to me. Perhaps it would even be more harmful for you - for your reputation, your relationships?"

"I don't care about that, either."

"You have to, doctor," she said, almost sternly. "Good night, Dr. Enys."

But as she passed him, she brushed against his arm, and she stopped.

"It is very trying, now," he said. "But it won't always be."

At the last minute, she wasn't sure if she was ready to face these complications, and moved to continue on. But he grasped her forearm.

Caroline could only think: if he doesn't let me go, I will do something quite out of my mind. She said, sounding rather inane in her own ears: "It is very reassuring to have you here."

She pulled herself out of his grip.

"Caroline," he said, hoarsely, and her heart started to race. It had come, it had come, she thought wildly.

She turned to face him so there was almost no distance between them. "Dwight, I ..." she began - a sentence never meant to go anywhere, as it was intended only to be stopped by his kiss.

They were almost of a height, and when his lips closed over her upper lip, a slight incline of her head pushed her mouth open, so that she could feel the warm, wet inside of his. He drew hastily away from her, mortification in his eyes and apologies on his lips. She shook her head and tilted her chin upward, inviting him back.

Now he pressed her lips against his, and took both hands to her cheeks, lifting her face up to his as if she were a chalice. A tingling sensation along the line of her spine, to her hips, down to her virgin cunt. A welcome sensation. Lust, like a thunderstorm, like a quiet rain, like a hot bath.

Dwight broke off, whispering, "We can't - not here."

But his hands did not leave her. As if out of his control, they swept back from her cheeks, through the tangle of her hair, to rest on the base of her skull.

"Say something," he said.

"I don't know what to say. I've never – felt like this before."

"I have to go," he said roughly. "We can't."

"I'm sorry," she began.

He took her hand and kissed it; then, when she gasped at this simple, familiar gesture, feathered kisses up her wrist and her arm. She leaned forward into him, and his arms encircled her. This, she had some vague idea, would be the end of the adventure. She would remember herself, and say good-night. No real harm done. A bit of excess humour from the dance, the stress, the lateness of the hour … oh, the sensation of his lips on her neck. How weak she suddenly felt, not a single muscle under her own control.

"Tell me to stop," he said into her hair, and his breath was hot on her skin, and the fire of it spread down her neck.

"No, no, I won't. Dwight ... Dwight ..." and he was again kissing her, pressing her against the door. His hands, his lean fingers, weaved through her rowdy hair, and her mouth was getting wetter and wetter, as though she was turned by a ravenous hunger.

Then he stepped back from her and they waited for the moment to leave them, staring at each other, both breathing hard. But there was no halting it, now. They had been stripped of every instinct, except for the one.


End file.
